brain cancer fic》jerrie version

t h r e e

They never actually use the word cancer. Or maybe they do, but that isn't until they've already used the word glioblastoma, grade four which is somehow a thousand times worse as they stare blankly at the light box on the wall, displaying Perrie's MRI results and she's certainly no expert but the white mass invading her frontal lobe isn't supposed to be there and her entire body is shaking, mind racing because it all makes sense. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Perrie doesn't even have time to react before Jade is blurting out a shaky, "So what are the options?" Herhand tightens instinctively around Perrie's.

Not many, it turns out, because Perrie has cancer and it's of the incurable, brain-eating variety and fuck, when did it get so cold in here? She can't stop shaking and the whole world is spinning. Dr. Allen is still talking, tight, grim smile on his face and Perrie wants to punch it off because he's using words like bad, but not hopeless except it is hopeless because, well. She can have them poke around in her head and feed her drugs through plastic tubing but the gist of this entire conversation is that she's going to die.

"They were supposed to be just headaches," she whimpers helplessly, wanting to disappear when Jade lets out this little choking sob next to her, hand curling around Perrie's arm and tugging her close but Perrie tugs back. She doesn't want anyone to touch her. Her skin itches, like she needs to shed it all and start anew. She wants to sink into the ground and disappear into the very core of the earth, to become part of the soil and rock and grass, to exist everywhere and nowhere simultaneously.

Instead, she stands up slowly and says, very quietly, "I think I need to puke," before walking out of the room and stumbling down the clean white hospital hallway to the bathrooms, locking herself in a stall and clutching the porcelain basin with shaking hands. She doesn't puke, though - just sits there, body heaving but never quite enough to get her to empty the contents of her stomach and god, she wishes she could because dread is coiling in her stomach like rope and she presses her forehead to the toilet seat.

It's gross, but she doesn't care. It feels suddenly like all the life has drained out of her and she sits there, limp and emotionless for a long, long time until Jade is pounding on the door, begging her to let her in. Her voice is loud and broken and Perrie can tell she's been crying. It feels like the entire world is falling away around her and when she finally opens the door, shaking like a leaf, she collapses into Jade's arms.

"'S gonna be okay," Jade whispers into her temple, smearing tears into her hair. Perrie isn't convinced, but she follows Jade back to Dr. Allen's office anyway because what the fuck else is she supposed to do?

Once they're settled back in the uncomfortable plastic chairs and Jade has pulled Perrie's chair so close she's nearly in Jade's lap, the doctor smiles professionally. Perrie wonders how many people she's had to tell they were dying. She's probably had lots of practice, from the look on his face, but the guilty look in his eyes betrays him. Perrie stomach churns violently.

"So, treatment," Dr. Allen begins again, folding his hands on top of the stack of papers on his desk. "The most common path is surgery; we can get a better look at it and remove a good portion of the tumor that way, though how much we're able to remove is hard to determine at the moment."

Perrie doesn't want to hear it. Jade is listening raptly, though, and Perrie almost expects her to whip out a pen and start taking notes. The thought makes her want to cry. She drifts in and out of the conversation, all too aware of the knobs of her spine pressing against the cold back of the chair and that her left sock has slipped off her heel, leaving her foot cold and uncomfortable. Drifting back to the present, she tries desperately to tune back into what the doctor is saying. "...chemotherapy is always an option," Dr. Allen says, lips pursed, and Perrie's heart is in her throat. "Unfortunately, it has proved in the past to have very little effect on the life expectancy or even the comfort of brain tumor patients."